And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. And Rollo, who had been waiting for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the doorway. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room.
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